


Introductions

by lingering_nomad



Series: Confrontations [2]
Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Anti-Hero, Evil Trevelyan, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Racial prejudice, Romance
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-23
Updated: 2015-04-28
Packaged: 2018-03-02 23:28:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 4
Words: 4,590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2829914
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lingering_nomad/pseuds/lingering_nomad
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A series of a first meetings between the members of the Inquisition, the Champion of Kirkwall and the elf who followed him to Skyhold.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fenris Arrives

**Author's Note:**

> **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_  
>  **A/N:** Slightly AU treveldor/fenhawke ficcy inspired by [this](http://danaduchy.tumblr.com/post/105766214004) screenshot of D. For post-Kirkwall Fenris, look at [this](http://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/post/113948160206/taranoire-twohundredandelevenhats-saw-this-post). Set after the events of ‘Pointed Questions.’ Dedicated to Xenrae for much kindness and encouragement.

To claim that the Champion of Kirkwall was not the Inquisitor’s favourite man in Thedas would be an understatement equivalent to the disaster that was the Breach. Hawke was an unrepentant apostate, a criminal, and a shining example of the boorishness that Lady Vivienne routinely ascribed to the dog lords of the south. Lysander had questioned the Fereldan’s sanity on a number of occasions, but never more so than he did at that precise moment.

“S’pose I… _cough…_ deserved that… _cough_ ,” Hawke chocked where he knelt, managing to ring out a chuckle in-between wheezing for breath.

From what Lysander had been able to gather, an elven man, accompanied by one of the large hounds that’d earned the Fereldans their moniker had come marching into the courtyard. He’d claimed to know the Champion of Kirkwall and, according to the stuttering account of the white-faced recruit who’d directed him, walked up to Hawke where he stood conversing with the Commander, tapped him on the shoulder and when he turned ‘round, proceeded to thrust an arm through his chest.

Lysander might have thought the recruit mad as well had he not arrived to see the assailant’s hand protruding from Hawke’s back, awash in a glow not unlike what shone from his own. The limb had since retracted, though the strange iridescence remained. Unlike the Anchor, however, it’s spread was not limited to the stranger’s palm. Like a network of shimmering rivers on a map, it traversed the entirety of his form, visible even through his heavy cloak and whatever he’d donned underneath.

Disturbed, Lysander began to shore up his mana, intending to stun the intruder with a well-aimed bolt from the blue. As if the situation were not sufficiently bizarre, however, he felt his effort blocked...by his own bloody Military Advisor!

Aghast, he rounded on the former templar. “Explain yourself!” he demanded.

“My apologies, Inquisitor,” Cullen placated, hands raised, palms up, “but I fear the situation lends itself to misinterpretation and—”

“You _bastard!_ ” the elf roared, flinging back the hood that covered his face. Lysander blinked. He’d seen many a comely face in his life, not least since taking up the mantle of Herald, but what he saw before him now was not what he’d expected. The voice was deep, low, resonant – that of a warrior – but the face, belonged to a courtesan. Eyes of startling green burned with emerald fire as the stranger glowered down at the mage at his feet, a tangle of snow-white hair tumbling about features almost too delicate for the riot of emotion that shaped them.

“Wolf, I—” Hawke gasped, but the elf was not finished.

“You left me _behind!_ ” The deep voice cracked as a tremor of anguish shot through the tone. His breathing sharpened to gasps, limbs starting to tremble. “You _left_ me, Wreath!” he repeated, volume lowered if not the vehemence. The glowing web about the elf’s body faded to nothing as he collapsed to his knees, burying that striking visage in the crook of the Fereldan’s shoulder.

As Lysander looked on, Hawke’s arms wrapped around the slighter man, drawing him close. In the weeks since their introduction, he’d come to believe the Champion incapable of speaking without snarls and scoffs, turning the sudden gentleness of his tone all but dissonant to the Inquisitor’s ears. “I’m sorry,” Hawke murmured, voice hoarse from more than a physical ache. “I’m sorry… _cough…_ Please, my love… _cough, cough_ …Please don’t weep. I’m _so_ sorry...”

“Love?”

Lysander glanced ‘round as the resident necromancer spoke up from the vicinity of his shoulder. He’d been so absorbed in the two men’s exchange that he hadn’t noticed the Altus mage’s arrival. Dorian, for his part, stood riveted and the Inquisitor found himself intrigued in turn by what he saw. Dorian Pavus, embodiment of worldly ennui, seemed… _awed_. His ever-animated features were placid, younger than his years in that moment. As Lysander studied him, he realised that even his breathing had stilled.

Filing the Tevinter’s reaction away to be mulled over later, Lysander’s attention returned to the scene between Fereldan and elf. A low baying rang out as the tapered-eared interloper’s companion butted the top of its head against Hawke’s side and without loosening his hold on the elf, the Champion wrapped an arm around the beast’s muscled neck and hauled it into their embrace.

“He-e-ey, Spike’s here!” Varric enthused from behind them.

Word must have spread about a disturbance in the courtyard, because the dwarf’s crossbow was in his hands, in the process of being disarmed. Shouldering his weapon, Varric made to rush toward Hawke and…‘ _Spike_?’ only to falter as he moved past Dorian. He froze mid-stride, smile slowly morphing into a grimace as his gaze climbed the length of the Tevinter mage’s frame.

“Ooh shit.”


	2. Lysander

“Who is this man?” Lysander demanded, beyond annoyed with the chaos. For all serah Tehtras’ enthusiasm to greet the newcomer he’d retreated rather swiftly, practically dragging the scion of House Pavus in his wake. The Inquisitor’s own tolerance of Tevinter and its constituents was roughly on par with his goodwill toward apostates – which was to say, marginal at best – however, he would not, _dared_ not abide in-fighting in the ranks while Coryphaeus remained a threat. If the dragon the creature commanded was indeed an Arch Demon…

Fear stirred, but Lysander crushed the sentiment before it could form. Thedas could not withstand another Blight. Order had to be restored and he would see to it himself or perish in the attempt. Any who sought to impede that aim would precede him in short order. Besides, while not quite as breath-stealing as the elven insurgent, the magister’s son was far from a hardship to behold. Whether the man’s flirting was a ruse crafted to fluster and deflect, or a genuine hint as to his proclivities was yet to be determined. The little game of cat and mouse was proving quite enjoyable as distractions went and whether by untimely disclosure or a blade in the throat, Lysander was loathe to see it brought to a head too soon.

He watched as the Commander helped to heave the Champion to his feet, with mightily grudging thanks from the elf. Even the hound’s ears remained tucked close to its skull, eyes pinned warily upon the former templar.

Familiarity strummed between the three men as they approached; a civil tension that spoke of respect between soldiers who’d stood on opposing ends of a battlefield. “Inquisitor Trevelyan,” Cullen gestured to indicate the stranger. “May I introduce messere Fenris Hawke.”

“Hawke?” Lysander questioned. The intimacy between elf and apostate was obvious and it had naught to do with blood.

“We’re wed,” Hawke clarified, still hoarse, though there was a distinct note of pride in his voice. “The union was blessed by Mother Odelle of Val Falaise. It’s recorded in the Chantry’s archive. Sanctioned and sealed.”

“Indeed?” Lysander queried, only slightly mocking.

“Indeed.” It was the elf who replied, arms crossed in blatant defiance where he stood beside his… _husband?_ Those verdant eyes were faintly reddened still, yet no other trace of his distress remained.

The Inquisitor nodded. “And the good cleric was in no way concerned that refusal might see her parish fall to arson?”

Hawke gave a cavalier shrug, “We issued no threats. Any assumptions made in that vein were solely at the clergy’s discretion.”

Refusing to dignify such barefaced baiting with a response, Lysander’s gaze flicked back to the _other_ Hawke, noting the strange white calligraphy running from his chin down into his vestments. The scent of lyrium hovered about him, crisp and vaguely metallic. Like mountain air after a snowstorm and the first gush of an enemy’s blood.

Wondering absently if the man’s skin might taste of the mineral as well, the Inquisitor dipped into a bow. “Lysander Caelestis Trevelyan, Knight Enchanter of the Ostwick Circle of Magi, Herald of our Lady and most recently appointed Head of the Inquisition. A pleasure, messere Hawke. I look forward to deepening our acquaintance,” he introduced himself, tone pitched on the precipice between courtesy and innuendo. The human Hawke was not fooled of course, and Lysander grinned inwardly as he watched the other mage’s features darken, the pulse of his ire rustling through the Fade. The elf merely nodded, expression blank.

“Well then,” the Inquisitor went on, idly straightening the cuffs of his coat, “I’m certain you wish to retire after your journey. I’ll have Ambassador Montilyet see about having a room arranged—”

“He’ll reside with _me_ ,” Hawke bit out. One brawny arm settled pointedly around the other man’s back and Lysander did not miss the way the elf retreated ever so slightly into the touch.

Not so oblivious after all it would seem.

A pity.

Such pursuits tended to be more amusing when the quarry was unaware of the chase. “Of course,” he conceded smoothly. “Before we disperse, however, would any of you care to indulge my curiosity as to why master Pavus had to be spirited away post haste?”

He watched, intrigued, as the elf stiffened at the mention of the name. “Pavus?” he echoed, voice low as if speaking a terrible curse. Slowly, his gaze turned toward his human spouse. “That is…that is a _Tevinter_ name, Wreath.”

The Champion bent to speak close to a tapered ear, voice a brisk rumble against that platinum jumble of hair. When he straightened, blades gleamed in his gaze as he lock eyes with the Inquisitor. “I’m sure I have no idea. Ask him yourself.” With that, he turned and stalked off, arm around his lover, hound at his heel.

Lysander watched them go, feeling Cullen hovering tensely beside him. The man plainly had something to say, but the Inquisitor did not invite him to speak and true to his training, the soldier held his tongue.

The arrival of the Champion’s better half was un an unexpected development, to be sure. If nothing else, it would be interesting to see where it led.


	3. Dorian

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **A/N:** Thanks for the encouragement everyone ;) Here's Dorian's into. Special credit to [ashenhartkrie ](http://ashenhartkrie.tumblr.com) and [kittypistol](http://kittypistol.tumblr.com) for beta-ing. **Please note:** this chapter makes reference to things that happened in [Pointed Questions](http://archiveofourown.org/works/2766158). If you haven’t read that fic, this might prove mildly confusing.

“What is the meaning of this, Varric!” Dorian demanded as he smoothed the creases in his tunic, put there by the dwarf’s iron grip. He’d been dragged from the courtyard to his quarters – half way across Skyhold! – with a terse, “ _Shut up and walk, Sparky,_ ” as the only response to his protests.

Dorian was getting thoroughly sick of being unsettled. He’d left Minrathous with a vague, academic understanding of the cultural differences between north and south; nothing that remotely prepared him for what he would face. He’d anticipated a measure of suspicion from the plebeian masses, but he’d never considered the belligerence he would suffer from the mages of the south.

Corralled like cattle only to be scattered like sheep, he’d thought to find his fellows more receptive of one who hailed from a land where their kind walked free. Indeed, it was an assumption that held tragically true in Redcliffe, but here _,_ in these mountains, _he_ was the one left to wander as a would-be trophy among hunters, both vengeful and opportunistic. The templars of this land were fanged serpents compared to the Imperium’s worms and they were _everywhere_ in this place. Staring and sneering, making no secret of their desire to cut him down at the slightest misstep. His rapport with the Inquisition’s casters offered little respite. The self-styled Madame de Fer’s demeanour was cooler than the climate, the two ‘ _apostates’_ regarded him with barely fettered scorn and the Herald…

Reading that man was not unlike peering into a dark well and attempting to guess at its depth.

Dorian feared that he would find himself pulled in and left to drown before this matter with Corypheus came to a head. The Inquisitor did not trust him. He’d gleaned that much. The man was constantly watching, assessing, conspiring. Yet, he had not imagined the leers being cast his way either. Lord Trevelyan was hardly indiscreet, but Dorian had heard the rumours, whispered among sweet young lay sisters and strapping recruits alike. The Inquisitor took lovers as a connoisseur sampled wine and he was no respecter of sexes. He was also the Herald of Andraste and Head of the Inquisition. Dorian had seen the privilege those titles afforded; had even benefitted first hand when the Inquisitor offered him asylum in contravention of his counsellors’ advice. Galling as it was, Dorian knew himself to be at one Lysander Trevelyan’s mercy, which would endure only so long as he proved himself of use.

He’d feared the discovery of the truth behind his departure from the Imperium; that the stain of his deviancy would mark him even here, but—

“… _my_ _love._ ”

To hear such affection voiced between men. Candidly. Openly. By that insufferable dog lordof all people, and to _an_ _elf_ no less! Without a moment’s hesitation and in full view of those assembled.

Could matters truly be _so_ different here?

He’d spoken with derision of the shackles imposed by the southern Circles, yet, it seemed that in some things the mages of the south were freer than he.

Dorian had never considered an elf – as the vast majority of slaves in the Imperium were – as a candidate for the sort of commitment shared between equals. Even so, it was all too easy to conjure the looks of horror upon his kinsmen’s faces should he have mustered the imagination, let alone the cheek, to openly declare his devotion to one.

Forget blood magic.

Magister Halward would have seen him dead for such a disgrace.

“... _argumentum ergo vanitas, Dorian! A te nihil accipio! There are many who share this ‘penchant’ of yours. Do as they do and take one of the slaves. Please, my son! If none of the household stock appeal to you, you may go to the market. Choose any you like; as many as you like._ _Obsecro te, Dorian. This rebellion is as unnecessary as it is unbecoming!_ ”

Even after all these months, that final confrontation with his father still rang in his ears. It was but a few days later that he’d learned of his sire’s plan to have him… _altered_ , affording a choice between fleeing into the warring south, or to risk the warping of his very soul _._ Tevinter offered no safe harbours. His friends all believed as his father did and most would blithely applaud the man’s recourse in the face of his son’s ‘childish obstinacy’…

In the present moment, Dorian watched the dwarf grimace as he massaged his eyes with a gloved hand.

He seemed fed-up. More so than usual and unease rose in Dorian. Varric was the only one among the Inquisition’s inner circle who’d shown him a modicum of kindness. He would never have guessed what the bowman had lost at the hands of ‘another Imperial sympathiser’ if the good Seeker hadn’t made rather pointed mention of it. Dorian was well aware that his affiliation with the Inquisition presented an ongoing source of controversy, even _before_ the blighted Champion of Kirkwall put in his two coppers. If Varric’s affability toward him soured an alliance that the dwarf had cherished for a decade—

Varric’s hand fell away as he drew a breath, lips parting to speak. He faltered, however, as he looked up to meet Dorian’s gaze. “Oh come on, Sparkler, don’t look at me like that!”

Quickly, Dorian schooled his features. “Like what?” he postured, pretending to fuss with his garments.

There was a pause and then, “That elf out there?” Varric began, mercifully changing the subject, “He’d be the reason the bar got stabbed.”

Dorian froze, “You heard about that?”

The absurdity of the question struck him as soon as it left his mouth. _Of course_ Varric had heard. Per vetera! Anyone who set foot in that tavern would’ve known within hours of it transpiring. What _was_ surprising was that the bard had yet to compose an ode to the event, though that was probably due to the Inquisitor’s influence. Lord Trevelyan was nothing if not protective of his own interests and to have a rumour circulated that the Inquisition was harbouring slave mongers would not serve them. Judging by Varric’s arched brow, the dwarf concurred with his assessment.

“And what does that elf have to do with me?” Dorian queried.

Varric huffed a laugh, sharp-edged with a cynicism that only seemed to leave his eyes when he was reminiscing with Hawke. “He’s from Tevinter, Sparkler. Though, not quite like _you’re_ from Tevinter.”

Dorian blinked. Judging by Varric’s expression, he was not being intentionally cryptic, yet his meaning proved elusive, until “… _Treated well, you say?_ ” Hawke’s interrogation from several nights earlier rose in his mind, pregnant with new meaning.

“He’s a _slave?!”_

“Once upon a time,” Varric said, scowling his disapproval and Dorian felt his innards contract. He truly hadn’t thought much about the subject of slavery. Not in his family’s villa in Minrathous and not since he’d left. It was the way things were done in the Imperium and he’d never heard any of those who served House Pavus complain about their lot.

‘ _And what if they had?_ ’ an insidious voice taunted. ‘ _Do you honestly think they would have done so within earshot of their master’s progeny and heir?_ ’

“But he was freed?” he said aloud, though given the vehemence of Hawke’s outburst—

Varric shook his head. “He ran _,_ Sparkler. His _owner_ ,” said with no small measure of disgust, “gave chase for almost a decade. Would’ve kept at it longer, if he hadn’t made the mistake of showing up in Kirkwall.”

‘ _A decade?’_ Dorian knew of the dwarf’s reputation for hyperbole but he seemed perfectly serious at the moment.

“He…did not depart on friendly terms, I take it?”

“He didn’t depart at all, Sparks. Hawke wrung him out like a dishrag and then handed him to Fenris. Crushed arteries. Dead in three seconds flat.”

‘ _Oh_.’

“What was his name, Varric? The elf’s master, I mean.”

“He went by Danarius. Don’t suppose you’ve heard of him?”

The air left Dorian’s lungs. “Magister Tarquin.” He’d known of the man; had never met him in person, but, “He was quite revered for his research in the Minrathous Circle. His loss was…mourned.”

Varric’s eyes were slats of glass, hard and transparent. His scoff was unrepentant. “Not in Kirkwall, he wasn’t,” he muttered, almost to himself. Their eyes met again and Dorian watched as the man wrestled his features into smiling. “Just…give those two a wide berth, is all I’m saying.” The smile softened and Dorian’s coiled viscera loosened a fraction. “I’d rather your guts stay inside you if it can be helped,” the dwarf added, sounding sincere.

“Thank you for the warning, Varric,” Dorian said, feeling slightly pathetic for how much he meant that statement. “Your advice shan’t go unheeded.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tevene translation:  
> • Per vetera!: By the old ones (I wanted to use some cussing that’s specific to the Altus class. This is what happened)  
> • argumentum ergo vanitas: this argument is pointless  
> • A te nihil accipio: You need not forfeit anything  
> • Obsecro te: I beseech you


	4. Solas

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How would Fen’Harel react to FenHawke?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Topography:** “spoken dialogue,” “ _flashback dialogue_ ,” ‘ _thoughts_ ,’ _emphasis_  
>  **A/N:** Solas is not exactly Captain Tolerance when it comes to human/elf pairings. Just saying.

It was with reluctance that Solas pushed his way inside ‘The Herald’s Rest’ – and it was in no small part due to the name, dedicated as it was to the insolent quickling currently presiding over Tarasyl’an Te’las. Sadly, sustenance for mortal bodies was one of a select few necessities that could not be sourced in the Fade, leaving him with little choice in the matter. He’d ventured three days travel higher up the mountain, to a place he knew where the Veil was as gossamer, and tarried longer than he’d planned. He’d begun the final leg of his return shortly after sunrise. His rations, however, had run out the previous day.

The morning was advanced enough that it was closer to midday, while the hour that traditionally marked the afternoon meal had yet to chime. This culminated in a minimum number of patrons in the tavern, which suited Solas’ preference. As per his habit, his gaze flitted from one occupied table to the next, sorting tapered ears from rounded. As per usual the ratio was dismally skewed. Few of the elves who’d pledged themselves to the Inquisition were bold enough take their meals in the tavern proper, seeming content to place their orders and scurry off like vermin as soon as a bowl was placed in their hands.

Sera was the only other of their people who held no qualms about defying human social norms, though there was little by which to call the girl an elf other than the pointed bits of cartilage on either side of her head. The spirits knew, she showed more contempt for the Elvhen ways than even some of the shemlen did.

The girl was not in the common room – and Solas confessed to a smidgeon of relief – though, there  _was_  another present that warranted his notice. He had not encountered this one before, which was in itself enough to intrigue. Even seated and judged from behind, the great-sword balanced against the table was not needed to mark him as a warrior. He was too slender for a hybrid. However, for a full-blooded elf in southern Thedas, he was quite strapping, attesting to better nourishment than many of their kind enjoyed. A cascade of platinum hair was bound messily at his nape and, as he turned his head to thank the serving wench for the pitcher she’d set before him, skin markings of a similar shade came into view.

Vallaslin?

If it was, it was unlike any Solas had previously encountered. Curiosity thoroughly stoked, he approached the man’s table.

“Andaran atish’an, felon,” he ventured, opting for politeness. It stood to reason that the stranger was of the Dalish. City elves typically lacked the composed confidence this man exuded, though what cause a member of the Clans might have for venturing out to a stronghold pledged to Andraste and the Maker, escaped him. As misguided, even foolish as the tribesmen were, Solas was prepared to welcome the company of  _any_  fellow elf who did not blithely bend to the human ways.

It took an extended second for the stranger to respond, as though reluctant to acknowledge the address. His gaze, when it finally rose, was wary, flitting swiftly from Solas’ face to his shoulder and then, upwards. It occurred to the mage that the man was examining the staff strapped to his back. To some, it might seem a peculiar habit to go about Skyhold with his weapon as a constant fixture of his person, however, with so many templars to contend with, Solas had concluded that prudence was the better part of valour.

The stranger’s eyes flicked back to his face, full lips twisting with obvious distaste. “If you expect me to respond in kind, mage, I fear you are destined for a long wait. My command of the ancestral tongue is scant at best.”

The voice was deeper and the tone harsher than Solas expected. The face was that of a man firmly into adulthood, albeit closer to his youth than his dotage – and quite a striking face it was too. Regardless of which sex one preferred to lie with, there was no disregarding the beauty of the man before him.

As close as Solas stood, there was no mistaking the scent of lyrium that hung about him either. Feint but distinct.

He held no link to the Fade that Solas could sense, the templars weren’t tolerant of elves in their ranks and exorbitantly as the mineral was priced, there were few other avenues by which to succumb to addiction.

“Ah, my apologies,” the mage offered, even managing to force some levity into his voice. “I saw the markings and assumed you to be of the Clans. I see now that they’re quite unique.” He waited. Few young men would forfeit an opportunity to embellish upon such a statement, though it became quickly apparent that he was dealing with precisely such an exception.

Slighted and amused in equal measure, Solas twisted his mouth into a grin. “Please forgive my forwardness,” he said, slinging the staff from his shoulder as he pulled out the chair opposite the warrior and sat without being invited. “There are so few of our people here to share a meal with that I admit to being enthused at the prospect. I am called Solas,” he offered, extending his hand across the table.

Fork suspended halfway to his mouth, the other stared at the appendage as though it carried the Blight. He glanced – rather longingly, Solas noted – at the half-score of empty tables around them, before sighing and setting down his utensils to resign himself to a handshake.

“Your name?” Solas pushed when nothing else seemed forthcoming.

A pregnant silence lingered between them as the other retrieved his fork and steadied the meat on his plate for a methodical dissection. “Fenris,” he divulged at last and for a moment, Solas’ surprise outstripped his mounting irritation. “That is…an unusual name among our people. Elven legends of the wolf aren’t particularly sympathetic.”

The stranger – Fenris – paused in cutting his meat to regard him stonily. “An elf did not name me,” he stated. Dismissively it seemed as he once again returned to his food.

Solas’ eyes narrowed. “Might I ask who did?”

Fenris took a bite of his meal and washed it down with his water before deigning to respond. “A magister of the Tevinter Imperium. He is dead now.”

Comprehension dawned and Solas looked upon the younger man with new eyes. Rage licked at the edges of his consciousness, but he pushed it aside.

“Why cling to such a name, then? If it is a relic of enslavement—”

The other man set down his utensils and met Solas’ gaze with a fierce intensity, “Because now, it belongs to  _me_ ,” he bit out, the words sharp and cold as blades of ice.

His focus turned from Solas once more, though this time he appeared to have been distracted. The mage followed the other’s gaze to the tavern’s doorway – where the Inquisition’s _other_  apostate had materialised. He’d found the Champion of Kirkwall to be a generally stoical man, his mirth either a droll response to Sera’s asinine humour, or something slightly deranged as an enemy succumbed blade or spell.

As the human’s eyes found the elf across from him, the grimness fled from his features, mouth splitting into a boyish grin as he made a beeline for their table.

“There you are,” Hawke remarked as he came to a halt. “I’d hope to wake early and have something brought so we might dine in the room.” Still smiling, he gestured at the half-consumed meal. “But you’ve defeated my purpose it seems.”

To Solas’ amazement, Fenris’ stilted mask had made way for a smile of his own, even as a spark of contrition shone in his gaze. “I did not wish to wake you. You’re…recovering still.”

A slender hand rose with the words, alighting – rather intimately in Solas’ estimation – upon the centre of the human’s chest. Hawke covered the hand with his own. “You were upset. Understandably so, and I am hardly worse for wear.”

“Even so, I am sorry.”

As Solas watched, the human bent and pressed a kiss to other man’s brow. His eyes widened. “Ghilan'him banal'vhen!” he accused, the words hitting the air before he could force his disgust under a modicum of control. "You've... _mated_  with him? A human?!"

Hawke straightened, frowning in obvious affront. Fenris arched a brow, though his expression swiftly shifted to something that would not seem out of place in a brothel. He rose as well, pressing his torso against the shemlen's.

The fierce intensity was back in his eyes, green and volatile as the Fade itself, as his fingers tangled in long black hair. “When it gets cold enough,” he rasped, pulling the Champion into a kiss.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **End A/N:** For a great interpretation of Fenris' build, check [this](http://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/post/117536701981/the-liger-art-the-hawk-and-the-wolf-by) out. For the leer he throws at Hawke, click [here](http://lingering-nomad.tumblr.com/post/117536862511/dante-by-liger-inuzuka-obviously-this-aint-the).  
>  Elvish translation:  
> • Tarasyl’an Te’las: “The place where the sky is kept” (Skyhold)  
> • Andaran atish’an, felon: “I come in peace, friend.” (slightly improvised)  
> • Shemlen: “quickling” (somewhat derogatory term for humans)  
> • Ghilan'him banal'vhen: “The path that leads astray” (a derogatory term for arcane warriors, used by those who have forsworn violence, slightly improvised for present context)


End file.
